


2:11 am

by pansexualbucky



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky is James, Hugs, Insomnia, Insomniac Steve, M/M, Oneshot, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Reunions, Sleepy Cuddles, Stucky - Freeform, but happy ending, no relationship yet, sad Steve, sad bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansexualbucky/pseuds/pansexualbucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never sleeps and stays awake all night, remembering the past and praying for the ghost to come back. All he has are the letters that will end up destroying him and memories that will always only be secrets from the past. </p>
<p>(Three years after the events of The Winter Soldier)</p>
            </blockquote>





	2:11 am

The letters. Yeah, the letters were probably the worst. Those crumpled pieces of paper that kept silently showing up at his door late at night, months in between each delivery. Those would be the death of him.

Or maybe, if that were a little too intense, they were the cause of the dark circles under his eyes and the heavy weight sinking into his bones with each passing day. The cause of that intense sadness filling his lungs. But he never called it sadness. No, it was just tiredness, right? That’s all. Nothing serious. 

Tonight he had received yet another letter. This time on yellow paper, with what had to have been blood smeared by a finger tip into one of the corners. The handwriting was calm this time, unrushed. There was no name at the bottom, as always. It was still squeezed between his fingers, becoming damp from his sweaty palms.

He knew whom it was from. He always did. There was no questioning that mix of cursive and print on the paper he now held onto like it would disappear if he let go.

Each letter always included a nameless memory from before, memories he knew only the _ghost_ would remember. And yet this one had none. Instead the ghost spoke of hiding in an empty apartment down the street, warning him to keep his guard up because sometimes, _sometimes_ the Soldier came back.

And this time it was addressed to Steven Grant Rogers. His full name written with precision at the top kept his eyes open that night.

Slowly, he unraveled his fingers from around the paper and set it on his nightstand with delicate care. He twisted his neck to the side, attempting to ignore the subtle pain at the base of his head.

There wouldn’t be any sleep tonight.

So he slowly slipped out of bed and padded down the hallway, distracting his thoughts momentarily as he poured a glass of water he wouldn’t drink. A cold autumn breeze drifted across his back and he closed a window, not questioning how it was open. It didn’t matter, nothing did.

His bed was uncomfortable and too soft. The duvet, too thick and sticking to his legs, is kicked off of the mattress with a huff. The green luminescence from an electric clock casted light across his face as he stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly.

            “Steve.” The voice was cold, unused and broken. “Don’t move,” it warned quickly.

Steve’s eyes traced the metal on the left side of the _ghost’s_ body as he carefully placed himself against the headboard, hands at his sides and unmoving. There was a pistol in his nightstand, loaded and cold, but he wouldn’t use it.

            “Buck…"

            “Shut up.”

So he did, silently glancing at the freshly cleaned knife in the ghost’s right hand. The ghost took a step forward into the gentle moonlight that filtered in through the curtains. He was unshaven and sleepless. His grey eyes were circled with fatigue; it looked familiar. 

            “I told you to be careful,” he finally muttered, voice cracking under pressure. “I could’ve killed you in your sleep.” His fingers squeezed the knife in emphasis.

            “I don’t sleep.” 

The ghost was silent, unable to reply.

But quietly he whispered, “Neither do I.”

            “It’s been three years, Buck.”

            “Don’t call me that.”

            “Okay.” And Steve swallowed a heavy knot in his throat.

            “I’m James now." 

            “Okay.”

And there was silence again, heavy, undisturbed silence.

_James_ slipped his knife into the waistband of his pants without a sound. He stood there in the moonlight, observing the soldier he only barely remembered.

            “Summer, date undecided, the air conditioning was broken,” he began with a monotone voice, and Steve only listened. “There weren’t any sheets on the beds. We pushed them together. You were small, _weak._ ” Steve’s breath caught in his lungs. “We weren’t dressed. Everything was silent.”

James’ eyes were cast low as he retold his version of a secret. 

            “There was music playing though, in the room next door. You touched me and I touched back.”

Steve watched James’ fingers twitch with the memory of moving his own fingers across skin. There was suddenly a barrier between the two men that neither dared to break. 

            “We were different,” James murmured, eyes finally meeting Steve’s. His metal fingers clench into a fist. “I was _alive._ ”

And then Steve’s eyes were stinging with guilt. He couldn’t comprehend what Bucky – no, James was fighting through. Couldn’t imagine the pain.

            “You’re still alive, James,” Steve replied with a hushed voice.

            “No.”

He was going to leave, disappear like before.

            “Don’t leave,” Steve pleaded. His voice cracked.

            “Why?” His voice was harsh, exploring.

            “Because you’re _safe._ ”

Steve dared to move, dared to get up and move to the end of the bed where James stood. He waited for a sign.

James’ head fell to Steve’s shoulder, his hair hiding his face. Steve, ever so gently, lifted his arms to embrace him. Every muscle in his body tensed, frightened and confused.

James silently moved against Steve’s body. His breath was shaky and ragged, the only noise that filled the room. He left his arms at his sides as Steve sat on the bed and pulled him close.

            “Can I stay here?” James muttered into the fabric of Steve’s shirt as the fingers of his right hand curled around his back. He pulled himself into Steve’s body. “Please?” His voice was pleading. He was broken.

            “You can stay here, always. As long as you need,” Steve replied. He was careful not to be forceful, leaving all ends of the agreement open for James to adjust to himself.

Slowly, without any quick and unnecessary movements, Steve pulled the two of them to the pillows. He settled himself on his side, allowing James to move where he was comfortable. James hid his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, knees pulled in, and curled into the curve of Steve’s body.

He might have whispered “thank you”, or maybe “goodnight”, but it didn’t really matter. He was sleeping, breath finally calm and even. Steve continued to stroke small circles into James’ back. He worried he would wake up alone, but either way, he finally fell asleep himself as he listened to the sound of James _living_ next to him. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a oneshot, but possibly background for future stories. I hope you enjoyed it <3


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